The Cracked Pot
The Cracked Pot
The light’s on – phew. When I’m in really black books, everywhere and everything is shrouded in darkness. Encouraged I take a deep frosty breath, then I begin my annual Christmas Walk of Shame.
Humming, ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’, I attempt to keep in a straight line and, despite a couple of unintentional detours, it’s a good effort so I’m optimistic, virtuous even as I try the door handle. Hmm, I try again. Nope, it’s locked. I go round the back. No, that’s locked too. Hmm, perhaps things aren’t as rosy as I first thought.
Brrr, it’s cold; I feel for my hip flask and take a slurp to ward off the chill. Aaah that’s better; my mate, Jack Daniels, always warms the cockles of my heart, and all any other cockles too come to think of it. I’m just humming, ‘Cockles and Mussels Alive Alive-O’, when I remember! ‘The Cracked Pot Under The Tree’. Ever since we moved here umpteen years ago, our improvised key-safe has been, ‘The Cracked Pot Under The Tree’. Fancy forgetting that, I must be drunker than I thought. Hmm, well in that case I might just as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. I gulp down what’s left of Jack, then stagger zig-zaggedly towards the tree.
There is no tree, there are no pots, cracked or otherwise! Suddenly I hear a shriek, “Harold, what are you doing in next door’s garden? Get yourself home now you silly old crackpot.”
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